


Five Things That Didn't Happen in Belfast

by TessMooreXF



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:36:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3217709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessMooreXF/pseuds/TessMooreXF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five things that could have happened (but didn't) during s02e03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Look, If You Don't Want to See

His continued knocking goes unanswered, prompting a labored sigh and cock of the hip. The Hotel Merchant possesses a generally dim atmosphere, but the darkened room should have been telling. Jim stares at the frosted glass accents straddling the door, hoping beyond hope that a light may pop on - that Stella may appear, robed and disheveled. He couldn't wish it any harder. Finally, Jim pushes his hands into his jacket and turns from the door. 

What had he thought he was going to do? All he'd known was the surge of rage at Eastwood's words on the phone. He couldn't have seen the crooked, knowing smirk on the other man's face, but it had been there. He had felt it. The tone was condescending, cool, calculated. Matthew Eastwood had known without a doubt - One step more, and he would be leading Assistant Chief Constable Jim Burns to his own noose. Jim's ride on the elevator is solitary and painful. He wants to be in his car, headed home. His wife may not speak to him, but it's nothing new. Rather, it's stale and familiar; almost comfortable. Stella's managed to show him just how desperately he wants something new. How much he wants her. 

'Is that why you came here?' He asks himself, his mind hard at work. He'd wanted to unload the unsavory words Eastwood passed over the phone line - or so he'd thought. Had it been more a siren call? His own sexual frustration finally pulling at his brain, shutting out rational thought? Jim can't deny that his longing for Stella is powerful and consuming. He dances around her, waiting for an opening. He sees the interest in the eyes of other officers and finds himself wondering - had she already bedded them? Had Glenn already experienced that blissful, single night? 

Jim remembers his own blissful night, long ago, yet disturbingly fresh in his mind. Her smell had surrounded him, heady and sweet, while her hands had twined themselves into his hair, holding his head down firmly. Her shoulders were bared as her bobbing form bucked her fine, soft blouse. It had billowed around her in a most becoming way. Her hair had been shorter then, but still a mass of finely contained blonde curls. They'd bounced around her face, coiling and flying, mesmerizing. She'd looked radiant and alive, lost in a wave of her own pleasure. When her eyes had finally opened, settling on his face, the blue was tranquil and bright, sparkling. He'd never seen anything quite like it. His hands had come to rest on her toned thighs, marveling at the work of the hard muscles under silken skin. It had been ecstasy, pure and simple, in its most potent form. 

She'd even been so kind as to allow him to sleep off his previous night's indulgences. He was never asked back, in spite of his rather pathetic, emphatic entreaties. A plain, boring, uninspired relationship with his wife and children hadn't quite spurred him to stop drinking, but he enrolled in AA the day after he left Stella's bed. Jim couldn't quite say it was because of her, or the promise of her, but the thought had been there. 

Coming out of the elevator, Jim hears dissonant jazz piano music floating from the open doors of the hotel bar. Chatter and laughing can be heard. It sounds busy. Jim hesitates in the doorway, his fingers tapping at his thighs. Five years. Was it worth it? When Eastwood hammers the final nail in his coffin, will his sobriety help or hinder? 

"Fuck it," Jim mutters. He walks into the bar purposefully, ever the Assistant Chief Constable. He is relieved, however, to find that he turns no heads. 

In avoidance of the hang-dog, sorrow-draining look, he takes a table in the far corner, avoiding the bar. If he flags a waiter, he appears to be awaiting company. Not just another loser blurring and dulling the difficulties of life with an exorbitantly expensive drink. When his whiskey arrives, Jim finds himself watching the amber liquid swirl around the over sized ice cubes, placed into the distinctly undersized glass. He never drank at upscale bars, before. He scoffs. 

Jim notices his hand trembling while he lifts the glass to his lips. He can see his wedding ring through the crystallized tumbler. What the fuck is he doing? His sip is more like a chug, and his eyes burn while the whiskey makes its way down his throat. He can feel the liquor settle in his belly, and he feels, momentarily, that he might vomit. The tumbler hits the table, and Jim lets out a wheeze of a cough. He's not sure whether he's more surprised or regretful. 

When Jim's eyes sweep the bar, he finds his gaze drawn to a curly, blonde head a ways down from him. It's just his luck to find Stella in the bar. He can only see her from behind, but its undoubtedly her. She's dressed finely, and walks with utter confidence, the gold cascade falling down her back, quirking and swinging in its usual perfection. She walks to a table occupied by another woman, whom he identifies as Professor Reed-Smith after a moment. The woman looks dark and elegant in her peep-sleeved top and slick up do. A well-dressed man stands, talking to Reed, offering her a margarita. Jim can't say he wouldn't have asked, himself, in another lifetime. 

With a simple swing of her hips, Stella drops into the booth beside Reed, her arm going around the other woman casually. Jim lifts his whiskey to take another swig, but finds himself stopped as Stella plants a bold kiss directly to Reed's lips. It's not a chaste kiss to the cheek - it's a kiss that implies a certain level of intimacy, of promise. Jim's glass falls back to the table when Stella moves closer to deepen the kiss. It's a beautiful interplay of dark and light, two women of such austere looks locking soft lips in a sumptuous dance. Jim doesn't think he's seen something quite so pretty in some time. The man who'd been speaking to Reed stands, in shock, his margaritas wavering in his hands while he takes in the scene before him. He turns to look at his buddies, seated at a table across from Jim. They're all positively giddy. 

'Poor sot,' Jim thinks to himself, finishing off his drink. He can feel the anger, the jealousy, and most importantly, the disappointment settling into his gut. The women stare at each other with heavy lidded, punch-drunk eyes while they sip at their questionably-obtained margaritas. It's mesmerizing, yet sickening to him. Jim hadn't been aware of Stella's predilection for other women, but he can't bring himself to be surprised. Nor can he bring himself to be surprised that he'll continue to get nowhere near her, on a romantic level. What had he really been expecting? 

Stella extricates herself from the booth seat and watches with unnatural curiosity while Reed shuffles and grabs her things. It's a predatory look, her focus narrowed to the other woman's face. Jim thinks he even sees her lick her lips. It's a look he's seen on her before - one he desperately wishes to see again, directed at him with all her ferocity. The women exit the bar side by side, and Jim knows just where the evening is headed for them. He raises his hand and orders a double, settling into his stiff seat for a long night of self-reproach.


	2. Don't Start What You Can't Finish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul watches his plans to humiliate and taunt Gibson fall apart at the very last moment.

_'His arm is so much browner....'_ Paul smirks, half-lit by Stella's bedside lamp. He allows himself to sink farther back into her pillows, reveling in her scent around him. Housekeeping has been there, but the basic smell of her lingers. It's a heady sort of scent, possessing and unique. 

"Ah, Stella." He clucks his tongue, flipping through the rest of the care-worn diary, picking out intriguing phrases among the duller of entries. He feels himself taking in her emotional burdens, fantasies and deep thoughts like a sycophant, ready to turn the table and push her to her back. Paul can easily see himself having her to play with, limp in his arms and ready for posing. Except, he wouldn't lay her to rest in her bed. Perhaps on the floor, or propped against the window, her clouded and widely open eyes no longer able to see the rising sun. Her lively, infuriating confidence would be so easily exchanged for deathly exposure. 

Paul shudders at the thought of petal-white skin encased in silk. Perhaps he would leave her pristine blouse on, unbuttoned but still adorning her shoulders and rib cage, in death every bit her piece of armor as in life. _'There's someone with me in the office...'_ Paul reads one of the more recent entries. _'I turn and fire directly at the masked man,'_ the entry ends. 

_She dreams of me._

It's all he can think. He can see her dream clearly in his head, their dangerous chase through a deserted PSNI office, her billowing nightgown nearly glowing in the non-light of the emptied hallways. He only wishes she dreamed of _him ___, rather than an anonymous masked man in black. Paul wants to watch her eyes peer into his while he backs her into a corner and dominates her with hand and mind. Would she tremble? He doesn't think she would beg, but rather fight back in ferocity, with witty barbs, and he finds himself immeasurably aroused at the thought. What color would those piercing blue eyes turn in the last seconds before death?

Paul drops the diary when the chirp of his cell phone pierces the thick silence of the hotel room. He struggles to pull the phone from his jeans while he remains seated on the bed. The number is unfamiliar, but he flips the phone and answers anyhow. 

"Hello?" 

The other end of the line is fuzzy and muffled. _"Is this Mr. Spector?"_

Paul almost hangs the phone up, but sighs. "Yes. Who is this?" 

_"Mr. Spector, this is PC Hagstrom, PSNI. Please hold for Katrina Benedetto."_

Paul's heart pounds heavily. Katie should have left his home some time ago. She'd gotten herself into trouble, potentially dragging him down with her. 

_"Paul?"_ Her voice is somewhat fragile, but not altogether frightened. 

"What happened, Katie?" 

He can hear her hesitate momentarily. _"Some passing officers saw me hop the wall to your house. I need you to come down to the station - I've been arrested."_

Paul sighs, already pulling himself out of the bed. "I'll be there shortly, Katie. Sit tight. I'll have it all sorted." 

She doesn't answer, but he can hear the click of the line disconnecting. Paul looks around Stella's hotel room in longing regret. He shouldn't have dawdled. He quickens his pace and returns to the bathroom. Opening the vanity drawer, he paws through Stella's underwear collection once more. His gaze falls once again on a sheer lace set, beautifully simple and inexplicably sexy. How would that ivory skin look, peeking through the finely woven threads? With a sigh, he shoves the underwear deep into his pocket and goes about setting the hotel room just as it was when he arrived. 

With one last visual sweep, Paul extinguishes the lights and heads out of the room. The elevator ticks off the arrival of an incoming car, and he decides to slip back down the stairwell instead. 


	3. Veiled Threats are Only Useful at Weddings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Callan will do anything to get at the PSNI, won't he?

When the two women round their way to the lift, Tanya announces that she needs to use the restroom. Her nervousness is plain in her gait, as she sashays across the marble flooring. Stella half-wonders if she'll be left alone for the night, after being mysteriously stood-up by the lift. _What a disappointing thought,_ Stella chuckles to herself. She can still taste and feel the slight waxiness of Tanya's lip gloss on her own tongue. She'd felt the other woman's hand snake around her thigh while they were tucked away in their bar booth. Stella suddenly can't recall having wanted anyone more than she wants the kind, friendly doctor. She wonders if her intensity may have scared her. Stella knows her own weaknesses, and her laser-like gaze can, sometimes, be misread. 

Stella straightens her cardigan, runs her hand over her hair, and her eyebrows raise as she hears her name shouted across the lobby of the hotel. It's a most uncouth shout, nasal and brash; the sort that only a low-brow journalist can produce. It's no question who's come to find her. 

"What can I do for you, Mr. Callan?" She almost rolls her eyes. 

Callan's smirk is infuriating, hanging crookedly on his unshaven face. He might be a nice looking man, underneath the filthy digging sessions and rumor mongering. Stella will only ever see him for the vile nature of his work. She can't say she wants to see more. 

"I thought you might want to discuss that exclusive with me now, Superintendent Gibson. It's just too bad I had to interrupt your... nocturnal activities." 

Gibson regards him coolly from her spot by the lift. She can see the shadows and bags hanging under the reporter's eyes, his angered dog posture, and rumpled suit. The shoulder bag hanging across his lapel is frayed and dirty. Things suddenly make a little more sense. 

"Let me guess, Mr. Callan - Your feeble attempts to ruin me are your last chance at gainful employment. I see that you're a hardworking individual - you certainly pour yourself into your work wholeheartedly." Stella's face remains impassive. "You know I can't discuss the details of an ongoing investigation. So, while the public tries to piece the puzzle together on your tidbits of ill-begot information, you may as well rake some muck into the equation. Everyone loves a tabloid, don't they?"

"How do you think the people of Belfast would feel about their beloved PSNI if the chronicle was to run further evidence that a high ranking officer has had multiple affairs with colleagues during her meager two week stay? And lliasons women, at that. What would people think of Professor Reed-Smith?" Callan actually laughs. He looks utterly exhausted, threadbare. Desperate. "You're a beautiful, intriguing woman, Stella. People love to see beautiful women fall." 

Stella does cock her head in mild surprise. _Michael Day. Must be why he was fishing so hard to determine who Tanya was._ She lets Ned cool his jets for another moment while she thinks. No doubt, he thinks he has her backed into a corner. Obviously, her relationship with Tanya would be considered an impropriety, no? Ned Callan holds her in his sights, eyes pinned to her face, taking her in. If he could circle her like a feral wolf, he would. It's too bad he's so easily beaten at his own game. 

"I'll be here for another ten days, maybe two weeks. You have to deal with the public citizens of Belfast for the rest of your career. If you need work as badly as I think you do, Ned... Can I call you Ned?" She perks her eyebrows at him in a sweet sort of quirk. 

Callan rolls his eyes, shuffling on his heels like an impish teenager. 

"You won't run those pictures." Stella sends her first smile of the encounter in his direction. She looks behind Callan to see Michael Day nervously pacing the lobby. So much for a man who can handle rejection. _Bloody lawyers,_ Stella thinks. The impeccably manicured man stands a little straighter, though, when he sees something move in the lobby. To her relief, Stella sees Tanya round the corner and head towards her. She reaches out to press the call button for the lift. 

Reed-Smith smiles cordially as she passes Callan, coming to Stella's side. Stella would like to gloat, but decides it's unbecoming. Instead, she waves a hand toward Ned. "Professor Tanya Reed-Smith, I would like you to meet Ned Callan of the Belfast Chronicle." 

Tanya stutters, "Oh." Her mind flashes to the trashy article, detailing her friend's private relationship for all the world to read. Had he been watching? Will he do the same to her?

"Don't worry; Ned was just leaving." Stella's fingers brush Tanya's shoulder as the lift dings. She guides the other woman into the elevator. "Come and see me after we announce a suspect, Mr. Callan. Then, you can worry about your exclusive."


	4. Look Before Leaping

The room is cold and dark, but it doesn't seem to matter. The passionate kiss unfolds in fervent haste, regardless of the lack of light and warmth. Stella sighs in surprise when she's thrown up against the wall, Tanya crushing her lips to hers, and she thinks she may hear the snick of the door closing behind them. Tanya's hands are certainly not cold, however, as they snake into the drawstring of Stella's joggers and burrow up beneath her silky camisole. The caress at her abdomen is insistent and promising. Stella reaches to her right, her hand running over the easily turned switch for the overhead light. As the room is flooded in warm light, Tanya jumps, her lips pulling away with a smack. 

"Jesus," Tanya whispers. 

Stella smiles lazily, and Tanya marvels at the mess of hair now tangled around her face, her swollen lips. _So very attractive,_ Tanya thinks. 

"What is it?" Stella runs her hand around the side of Tanya's neck, soothing the other woman. Claiming her. The touch is electric. 

Tanya sighs, taking in the room around her. Her look is charmingly sheepish and meek. "I suppose the dark made it feel more like a dream... Now I can see you. Somehow, it's real, now." 

Stella chuckles. "You dream about me?" 

Stella watches a most becoming flush spread across the other woman's cheeks, and awaits her answer. Her heart thrums in her chest, left-over excitement from the heated kiss. 

"I imagine many an individual has been so lucky as to be visited by one Stella Gibson in their dreams." Tanya's sincere doe eyes rise to meet Stella's own cool gaze. "I suppose I'm no different." 

"No." Stella reaches for the hem of Tanya's blouse, asking permission to remove it. Tanya raises her arms in agreement. "You're quite different, Doctor." 

Tanya stands in her sleek pants, kinky leather boots, and lace bra. Stella's hands trace a path down her arms, around to her shoulder blades, and down her back. Tanya's nervousness begins to melt away at her ministrations, and she moves to return the caresses. Stella finds herself not reaching for the other woman's hands, not attempting to restrain her from touching, not dominating the lovemaking. Instead, she feels her heart skip a beat when Tanya's fingers begin nimble work on the removal of her own cardigan and camisole. Stella begins pushing the gathering towards the bed, while her hands work hurriedly at the clasp of Tanya's bra. 

Tanya's warm mocha skin is the first to find exposure in the sotto light of the hotel room. Stella drops the other woman's bra to the floor, her eyes feasting on the sight before her. Tanya's shoulders tense again at the carnal look on her soon-to-be-lover's face. It's a scrutiny she's never experienced coming from another woman. It feels different. Somehow, more intense, but yet more gentle than any man could ever be. Stella sends a reassuring smile her way. "You're quite beautiful, Doctor." 

Once again, Stella's drawn to the honesty in Tanya's eyes. Tanya reaches for Stella, drawing her into another soft kiss, this time unhurried and worshipful. It's a tango of sorts, and Tanya surprises herself at her own savvy, as she divests Stella of her own bra in one sweeping motion, lips never parting. Stella laughs softly into her mouth, and Tanya feels a terrific sort of arousal. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met, Stella." 

Tanya watches Stella's alabaster form while she finishes undressing herself. The Detective Superintendent bared before her is more an exquisite pin-up, her figure blessed by full, shapely, rose-tipped breasts and the waistline of a 50's movie star. Finely honed muscles peek through the softness and beauty, and Tanya muses that she wouldn't want to meet Stella in a darkened alley fight. Flipping the tangle of blonde hair over her shoulder, Stella makes her way to Tanya, enjoying every second of the other woman's rapturous gaze. 

Tanya let's out a surprised bark of a laugh as Stella pushes her back into the bed, lying with her bare skin cooling against a soft duvet cover. Stella makes comical work of Tanya's tight boots and pants, struggling to pull them off without pulling the other woman straight off the bed. A giggle is shared while every last scrap of garment is tugged from Tanya's body and thrown carelessly to the floor. 

Lost in giggles and fun, Tanya has no time to think before her legs are spread and she finds the other woman's hungry mouth testing her already-swollen folds. Stella continues in earnest when Tanya's hands wrap affectionately into her hair. 

 

\-----------------------------------

 

"Are you OK?" Stella looks at her so earnestly, speaks so quietly. She looks at people in a way that makes the world narrow. Tanya sends a sad smile her way. 

"I need to get dressed and go." 

Stella nods, "I understand." 

The two women lay snuggled beneath the thick comforter, observing each other in the soft light. Stella tries to ignore the regret on Tanya's face, but it's growing by the second. 

"I just need to know something..." Tanya looks away to gather her thoughts. "Was this a one-time thing? I mean, I don't know what I want, so I sure as hell hope you know what you want." 

"I've had a lot of one night stands in my life." Stella smiles softly, almost regretfully. "I've only ever felt that I enjoy your company - in whatever capacity you're comfortable with." 

Tanya says nothing while she gracefully rolls herself out of the bed and begins gathering her strewn clothing. Stella gives the vulnerable woman the privacy she needs and pulls herself out of bed to head to the restroom. She doesn't watch Tanya put herself back together. 

When Stella finishes and returns to the room, still stark naked, she catches Tanya by the door. The other woman takes in her unabashedly bared body one more time, and Stella studies her right back. 

"Sometimes I think you could be a better communicator, Superintendent Gibson." And she's gone, the snick of the door closing not quite so alluring this go-around.


	5. Don't Shoot, Unless You Mean to Kill

_Fuck; What am I doing here?_ Jim looks down at the tumbler in his hand. How many is it now? He can't quite recall, but he thinks four. Four sounds right. Now he finds himself once again called to the shrine of Stella's hotel room door. As before, she isn't answering. He can see that the lights are on, and he's relatively certain she and Reed retired to the room. _What if they're making love? ___Jim doesn't want to dwell, though he feels himself tingle at the mental image, undeniably arousing. He can see the tangle of satin sheets, Stella's ivory skin melding into the professor's own mocha skin. Their hair meeting in a tangle of yin and yang, lustrously dark swirling into flaxen gold.

Jim doesn't know why he came up to the room again. He hasn't a clue what to say - not even a clue what he meant to say in the first place. In his mind's eye, he can see Stella earlier in the morning, her reproachful eyes glaring at him from atop a particularly alluring ensemble. To say he'd wanted to toss her against a wall and fuck her would be a gross understatement. However, it is a statement he finds himself increasingly uncomfortable with. 

The last bit of whisky tumbles out of Jim's hand when the heavy door finally snicks open. "Fuck all..." He stumbles a bit while he bends to retrieve the fallen glass. 

From his view near the floor, he can see her rather dainty feet, peeking out from beneath a luxurious peach robe. It occurs to Jim that he's never seen Stella's feet bared before. It strikes him as oddly intimate, and he clears his throat when he rights himself. The woman before him is a beast he's not quite familiar with. Her face is washed of makeup and repainted with a constellation of endearing freckles. The careful curl has fallen from her hair, and instead it's crinkled and knotted, untamed. Jim isn't quite sure what to make of her; Unsure of how to handle the fact that he can see her nipples pointing at him from beneath the robe. _Jesus._

"Jim." She hugs the door frame and averts her eyes. He can see the disappointment plainly in them. 

"I know." He stutters. "I mean... I know you thought it was someone else at the door." 

Stella knits her brows, working over what he's just said to her. "What are you talking about?" 

Jim's eyes are suddenly glued to the floor, covered in it's lovely, thickly piled carpet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. It's just, I noticed you.... visiting with Professor Reed-Smith downstairs." 

She doesn't answer him. When Jim finally dares to look her in the face, he can see her jaw working angrily. _What the hell is wrong with you?_ "Can we talk?" 

Stella sighs, making a production of looking behind her at her room. "I don't think that's a good idea." 

Jim feels his patience wearing thin. Suddenly, the weight of his night of drinking feels heavy. He feels muddled. Regretful. "Just five minutes, please?" 

With one last look into her room and a deep breath, she obliges. Jim feels oversized and clumsy while he ambles past her and into the room. Without her shoes and other basic war armor, she is but a slip of a thing. She is a formidable officer, but at the end of the day, she is achingly feminine and lovely. The robe is tied tightly around her waist, and Jim thinks his hands might be able to reach mostly around it. He could grow fixated upon a thought such as that... 

"What started you to the bar, Jim?" Stella nods towards the empty tumbler still tucked in his fist. "Shouldn't you be ringing your sponsor?" 

A decanter of whisky sits on the sofa table beside him. Jim looks at it longingly, its warm amber glow particularly inviting in the low light of the hotel room. "I'm done for, Stella." 

She waits for him to continue. When Jim turns to face her again, he finds her with her arms crossed while she waits patiently. More patiently than he deserves, he fears. 

"Aaron Monroe attempted to murder his father in hospital tonight. Eastwood took him into custody, but... It was me." He can barely bring himself to utter the confession in more than a whisper. "I tipped Morgan off about the warrant out for his son. My clumsy attempt to force him out of the Policing Executive... now it's gone tits-up. I'm finished." 

Stella puts her arm up. "Stop, Jim. I don't need to hear this. You need to get some council - find a solicitor." 

Jim shakes his head, moving towards Stella with newly-found purpose. "Did you fuck her?" 

"Excuse me?" Stella bristles. 

He chuffs, finally dropping the damnable tumbler onto the coffee table. "I may have a talent for miscalculating, but I'm not stupid." 

Stella forces her advantage, continuing to watch him in silence. His hands twitch in agitation, and his toes grind themselves into the bottoms of his shoes. Her eyes are deep and angry while she holds him in her gaze. She needn't tell him what she thinks of him at this very moment. 

"Is there anyone else I should know about?" Jim digs himself in deeper, while he gesticulates wildly about, the over-wrought and sarcastic tone in his voice grating on her. "Eastwood? McElroy? Brink? Jesus, Stella.... Ferrington? You have a responsibility - an ethical one, at that." 

"Are you really so concerned about with whom I share a bed?" Her chin juts out in defiance, and he can read the silent remainder of her question perfectly well. 

"Why not me?" Jim falls directly into the trap. "What's so bad about me?" 

This time, Stella's gaze turns away first. He sees her turn to look at the bed. For the first, Jim notices that the bedding is demolished, tossed here and there. Stella's leather skirt is lying crumpled on the floor beside the carved foot of the bed. Clearly, she hasn't had time to clean up. 

Jim moves in closer to her, his eyes large and wet, deeply troubled. "How many ways can I say it? I want you... So badly." 

"Just stop, Jim." Her hand comes up to his chest while he moves into her personal space. Again, he's transfixed by the smallness of her. 

Avoiding her stalling hand, he reaches around to tangle his fingers into her hair. "I just want to kiss you. Stella, I just want to forget - all of it." 

Jim still feels cottony and slow, still drunk, but her hair feels so good. He registers that she's touching his face, and he moves in for a kiss. He coos at her, and he whispers something or other. He's not sure what. Very suddenly, her face is close, but it's not right. He notices that her other hand has joined the first on his chest, fervently pushing him away. The slight fear in her eyes is all wrong. He startles when he feels the pop to his nose. He hears a crunch, much too close, realizing that it's his own nose collapsing on itself. The gush of blood catches him by surprise, too. 

Working on exhaustion, anger, and instinct, Jim doesn't even see the hand that sweeps out in defense. He feels his palm make contact with her soft cheek, and he peers around his left hand, cradling his already-swollen nose. Stella's face is mostly turned away, and she brings her hand up to test her stinging jaw. Her astonishment is clear in her features, and they gape at each other, neither sure of how they've made it to this exact moment. Jim's nose continues to pour blood down over his hand and into his crisp work shirt. His attention, though, is elsewhere. 

Stella pulls herself up to her full height and regards him coolly. "I think it's time for you to go." 

Jim doesn't hesitate to make his exit, stumbling out of the room with as much haste as he can muster. After he's gone, Stella massages her jaw again. It wasn't a hard slap... might leave bit of a bruise. _It's hardly the principle, though,_ she muses, staring at the empty bar tumbler resting upside down on her coffee table. 


End file.
